


Blood of a Falling Man

by Origingirl



Series: A Flickering Sun [3]
Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Blood Kink, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 06:22:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20149096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Origingirl/pseuds/Origingirl
Summary: The quest for a curse cure continues, and Sinbad is feeling anything but hopeful—close to feeling nothing at all. As always, Focalor does what he can to aid his king in his time of need. What he discovers not only both entices and delights him, but also alludes to the fact that their situation may not be as grim as they initially anticipated.





	Blood of a Falling Man

Dim candlelight danced across the beige walls of the room, painting everything in deep shades of maple brown and raspberry red. The bed on the far side of the room draped with restless sheets and covers saw only a sliver of moonlight on the tips of their sharp pleats, shut in from the worlds diligent, unforgiving eyes.

Dust rarely found a home within royal chambers, but tonight, that fact didn’t prevent Sinbad feeling like he’s breathing in billowing plumes of the tiny dirt and dead-skin-cell particles. He yearned for the hot, cleansing, lavender scented water of a bath, but couldn’t move—each muscle weighted down by invisible repugnant thoughts.

Standing at the foot of his bed, Sinbad idly traced the gold-inlay carvings adorning the foot’s mantle, the events that had transpired a week ago fresh in his mind like they’d only happens mere hours ago.

_You have become what you worked so hard to stray the world away from._

A fist slammed onto the mantle hard enough to nearly chip the wood. 

“Damn it.” He uttered it to himself, barely making a sound, but the emotion behind it could be enough to shake the palace walls. “But I have to change, don’t I? The rest of the world has changed since I set out on my own.”

_Yes, perhaps you have turned devious. But change isn’t a bad thing, Sin._

“Change. Like this? Is it… am I going to…” the words died in his throat, afraid, despite the devil-may-care attitude he usually has towards matters concerning the possibility of fatal danger.

**CLAP! THUM-CLAP! THUM-CLAP!**

At the roar of thunder outside that is the first of the rainy season in Sindria, blue smoke suddenly burst out from Sinbad’s silver bangle, shocking him out of his thoughts to curiously watch as his wind djinn took form of his own accord. 

The only reasoning Sinbad could come up with of this being possible is a sudden burst of magoi from the incoming storm, as djinn could not normally take on a physical from unless summoned by a magi—plus Focalor’s power heightening whenever it was overcast. 

Once Focalor became fully tangible, the first thing Sinbad’s eyes focused on was the seemingly vibrating ochre eyes of his djinn, his brows furrowed upwards in obvious, panicky worry. Tracing his form a bit further down, Sinbad saw Focalor’s arms and hands shaking, too—like he was afraid. But that wouldn’t make sense. Focalor is known for his haughty fearless attitude among all djinns. So what— 

“What the _hell_ is happening?” Focalor’s voice cut across the thick air of the room. He rushed over to his king, just barely illuminated by the flickering candle light stemming from a desk beside the front doors of the room, clasping his hands against Sinbad’s upper arms. 

Focalor then took the next minute to do an impromptu check-over of his king, looking at his arms, neck, face, hovering sideways to check his legs, waist, all the way down to his toes while spouting repetitions of _“is everything ok?”_ and _“are you hurt?”_

Sinbad, still caught off guard from Focalor’s sudden appearance, did not stop the djinns actions. And by the time Focalor’s minute of skittish, worried analyzation came to an end, all the thoughts previously occupying the kings mind that had been shocked out of him vigorously wriggled their way back in—leaving him to do nothing but stand there, motionless, _emotionless_ it seemed. 

Focalor’s eyes were cast in a sheen of doubt, looking at the man he had chosen to lead the world to a better place as if he’d never met him. Sinbad would have looked at himself the same way in the mirror right now. 

Still. It stung. 

“Sin.” Focalor spoke lowly in fear of his king drawing further and further away from reality. “Talk to me. You entered your room and ever since my vessel grew scorching hot. That’s never happened. The emotions of a metal vessel user aren’t supposed to affect the djinn inside. So please.” Focalor paused, taking both Sinbad’s hands in his own, smoothing over their surfaces in an attempt to soothe, to which Sinbad looked up with void, velvety eyes. “Tell me what you’re thinking.” 

✭

There’s no telling how late into the night it had gotten by the time Sinbad was crouched up against the headrest of his bed, mouth finally emptied of all words with Focalor sitting across from him.

“Ok. Alright.” Focalor spoke the words slowly as he nodded at his king. “This is good. Talking is always helpful.”

“Not this time.” Sinbad’s expression suddenly darkened, as if all the good in the world—all the _potential_ good in the world—had faded. “This… Focalor, I’m walking an awfully brittle rope.”

“So you’re changing. Becoming more ‘devious’ as Jafar eloquently put. So what?” The djinn shrugged, knowing in his heart Sinbad will always remain the same in some aspect of himself.

“So what?!” Sinbad jolted his head forward, his whole posture tensing with half-panic-half-offense. He bolted up from his position on the bed, moving to the wall to punch at it, the tile decor above where he’d punched swaying off-center from where it hung. “I’m in danger of _falling_, Focalor, and all you can say is ‘So what?!’”

“Sinbad, please!” Focalor was quick to move next to his king, tentatively placing both his hands on Sinbad’s shoulders. “We’ve talked about this many times. Your curse _isn’t you_.”

Sinbad turned to slap his ethereal comerad’s hands away, to which Focalor endured in order to get to the root of his king’s woes no matter how much he so desperately wanted to draw Sinbad close and hold him for all eternity. 

“_Isn’t_ it, Focalor?! If Jafar noticed—if _you_ noticed—I’m becoming someone I never wanted to be… the curse, it’s—”

**_“Not you!”_** Focalor shouted at the top of his lungs right before his king’s enraged, concerned, and panicked face. “Listen to me _right now!_ Since I felt your _presence_ in my dungeon, I knew I wouldn’t be meeting just any mortal. You wanted power, yes, but for reasons I initially laughed at your face for—to build a better world.” Focalor said, his tone pleading, _begging_ for Sinbad to see he’s not the fallen man he thinks he is transforming into. 

“You endured my many challenges and I felt a _raging fire_ behind your spirit that I haven’t encountered since ancient days. Only it wasn’t fueled by malice or greed or any other negative energy. It was _pure_. Raging, but warm, all-consuming, but with calculated movements. Your fire was going to be the one to make ashes out of those prohibiting mortals across the global from achieving prosperity. You’re fire burns with good intent, Sinbad, I—” he paused, cutting himself just short of words he knew if released into the air, they’d take flight and never return.

The abrupt stop and following silence made Sinbad turn away from the wall to glance over his shoulder at his djinn, who now possessed eyes sparkling with faith—faith in his king. The faith that Sinbad didn’t even have to try to accumulate for himself in the past, in his youth.

Focalor took a breath—even if he didn’t technically need it—before carefully selecting his next words. “I have followed you for years, Sin. I’ve waged many successful battles with you across those years. You allow me to dwell within your very soul when you summon me. So don’t you think it is significant that I say not to worry about this? Don’t you _trust me_, Sin?” The djinn held his hands out at his sides, yearning for that bright twinkle of lively confidence his king’s golden eyes always possessed. 

Sinbad stood still for a few seconds before turning his head back to the wall, sighing in a way that truly _did_ frighten Focalor. The djinn new this curse would eventually consume Sinbad if they couldn’t think of _something_, but one of the things Foclaor had heard of when dealing with strong, dark curses is to liven the individual’s moral and assurance in themselves as much as possible. He’s attempting to do so with all his might right now, but perhaps… maybe it wouldn’t work this time—if Sinbad’s sigh was anything to go by. It sounded like he exhaled a good ninety percent of his magoi and a generous amount of joy to go with it; an immense weight taking up residence where they used to be.

Focalor prayed to—_hell, he didn’t even know_. He just hoped he could conjure some way to bring his king back to himself even just for a moment. Even if it was futile in the long run, Focalor _vowed_ to take care of this man the minute he met him as a vigilant, curious, energetic boy with a dream for the future.

_Even if it killed him._

Even if the curse drew him down along with Sinbad.

At least then, his king would never be alone. Isolation is the worst punishment one could bestow upon a mortal.

Another, smaller breath escaped Sinbad before he dropped his hand from the wall and rested his forehead against it instead.

And then, just when Focalor hoped for a small flicker of hope, Sinbad _laughed._

“I must be _permanently_ marinating in self loathing if you have to ask me if I trust you, huh?” Focalor could hear the lingering smile in his words, and it’s the most precious song Focalor has ever heard.

The djinn released a small, relieved sigh followed by a light chuckle before taking a chance and approaching his king from behind. He did as before and placed his hands on Sinbad’s shoulders. A beat. Another beat. He wasn’t going to turn Focalor away this time.

The djinn sighed once more, placing his chin on his king’s shoulder. “I find even I am guilty of that.”

“What? How?” Sinbad sounded genuinely surprised a being such as Focalor found things here and there to despise himself for.

“Forgive me if this is uncomforting to you, but,” Focalor paused a moment, realizing that what he was about to say is something he’s had a genuine concern about since he saw what a miraculous person his king truly is. “I wonder… am I… do I do enough? Am I enough—for you.” He felt his lip quiver, his mind racing past all the possible ways Sinbad could respond.

The quietness that followed only knocked Focalor down peg after peg—then a warm hand placed itself on his arm, gently combing through the coal-black feathers lining the top of it.

“You… gods, of course you’re enough.” Sinbad’s voice held a small tremor of guilt, his combing of feathers morphing into a tight grip—like the djinn could fade away any second.

A somber smile shaped Focalor’s expression, his hands drifting from his king’s shoulders down to his waist, where he pulled his king in close as he’s yearned to since he released himself from his vessel. Sinbad relaxed into the touch, every muscle once held down with a grim foreboding mess of thoughts turning to jelly at his djinn’s own unique, ethereal kind of warmth.

“If you hadn’t agreed to follow me, I don’t know where I’d be.”

“Oh, come now.” Focalor huffed a laugh, beginning to rub soothing circles into his king’s sides. “You’re competent enough all on your own. How else would you have captured so many dungeons and built your own nation with our borrowed power?”

“Competent. But… there were always moments in my youth, as I was growing up. I…” Focalor could tell this bubble in time was hard on his emotional honesty, too.

“You don’t have to say it if you don’t want to, Sin.”

“No. I—my trust in you is greater than that I have for myself at times. Growing up… sure, there was Baal or Valefor always ready with abstract words of wisdom that I’d eventually come to make sense of. But you—”

Sinbad slid around in his djinn’s light hold, looking him directly in those intense ochre eyes as he spoke his heart instead of his mind. “You were—are—my safe place. The only one I felt I could exhale around and be free in mind and soul. I would have been cursed sooner by _insanity_ than depravity if it weren’t for your kind words and soft nature.”

Right then, Focalor could have melted himself at his kings words. He wished to stop and take a moment to tell Sinbad he felt very much the same—tell him everything he wished to about how much he—but no. Right now, Focalor thinks Sinbad needs a light, positive distraction to keep him from returning to the dungeon he’s raised in his head for himself.

“Soft! Ha!” Focalor laughed wholeheartedly instead. “You think me weak, my king?”

“I never said _that_. But yes, soft.” Sinbad smiled up at his djinn.

“Well. If you like soft,” Focalor leaned in close, brushing his lips up against his king’s ear, making Sinbad shiver. “Allow me to comfort you now, _Sin_.” And Sinbad shivered more furiously at his nickname said like _that_. Sinbad had only ever allowed Jafar to call him that, as he was always his closest friend throughout their perilous journeys. But after Focalor and he had gotten comfortable around one another, it slipped out once, but Sinbad didn’t reprimand him. And it stuck with Focalor and only Foclaor.

Their connection has always felt more potent than Sinbad had experienced with any other djinn he conquered, and right now that potency is being felt in ways that rendered his mind blank.

Focalor drew back and immediately captured his king’s lips in a gentle kiss, emphasizing the ‘softness’ Sinbad appreciated when with the wind djinn. 

Sinbad melted into the touch further, enjoying this rare, calm moment filled with a silence that brought peace to him and revived his lost energy. Energy that he quickly took hold of by grasping the back of Focalor’s neck, pulling him to press himself up against the wall.

Happy to oblige and even more happy that Sinbad was now acting like his normal self when around him, Focalor pushed the taughtly sculpted form of his king flush against the wall of his room and sought to devour him before stopping himself. If his king wanted softness, he’ll get it, and he’d have to beg him if he wished for something _other_ than soft.

“Oh no.” Focalor whispered against his king's lips after a full minute of administering what were probably the softest kisses he’s ever given to _anyone_, a pretend worried and coy expression shaping his features.

“What?” Sinbad’s voice came out breathless even though Focalor hadn’t kissed him as if to swallow him whole like in their usual moments together away from time.

Focalor trailed his fingers along the many necklaces adorning his kings neck and then followed the lines created by his normal day-time attire.

“It appears you’re fully dressed.”

Sinbad barked a laugh before lightly bumping his nose against the djinn’s.

“As are you, you marvelous creature.”

Focalor kissed the tip of Sin’s nose and forehead, his king sighing at the gentle contact, before pulling back with a knowing smile. 

_“May I?”_

“Always.”

✭

With metal vessels, save for Focalor’s silver bangle, neatly placed aside on the desk and clothes thrown haphazardly askew, all the wind djinn took to memorizing each contoured line of his king’s gorgeous form.

Still pressed against the wall, Sinbad quivered at each small erogenous zone his djinn discovered, loving the way Focalor’s soft kisses were accompanied by gentle bites. _Oh, he wanted more of **that**_. As nice as soft and slow was moments ago, what Sinbad needed now is to feel those pearly fangs dipping into his skin.

“Hey… Focalor.” He struggled to utter in the midst of his djinn’s pleasurable assault.

_Of course_ he took his time to reply, running his tongue up the small canyon between where abdominal muscles split down the middle, eliciting a gasp of surprise from Sinbad.

_“Yes_, my king?” And oh, the way Focalor was gazing at him from below his chest, haughty, ochre eyes burning with adoration and scorching lust; his voice low and sultry with a taunting tinge—all directed towards Sinbad; he wouldn’t be able to stand here and _take this_ for much longer.

“I believe—_ah_—I think I tire of this pace.”

“Oh?” Focalor climbed up his king’s body from waist to neck with his tongue, practically feeding off of the reaction it elicited from Sinbad; shameless moans of _pure need_. “Do I not satisfy you, Sin?”

“Oh, you know _very well what you’re doing_. But I—ah! _Yes!_” Sinbad felt his legs threatening to buckle when Focalor bit down on his neck _just_ hard enough to sting. He desperately grasped the sides of Focalor’s shoulders, pressing his djinn into him as if to merge with the otherworldly being.

“More of that. _Gods_ Focalor please, _please_ more of that.”

“My king desires rougher treatment?” Focalor mused, lapping at the spot he’d bitten seconds ago. “Exactly _how harsh_ do you _want_ me, Sin?” He asked, and then pressed his upper thigh firmly between Sinbad’s legs, to which his king groaned at and thrust up against him. Solomon help him, but Focalor had to physically ground himself in order to not devour his king right here and now.

Everything about Sinbad is more intoxicating to Focalor than the oldest, richest, spiciest wine on this plain of existence. His spirit filled Focalor’s senses to the brim, enveloping him in playful kisses and coy touches the wind djinn wanted to chase forever.

“I want—oh, _there_, yes—want you to… _bite_ me. _Until I bleed_, Focalor, _please!_” Sinbad begged his djinn, unafraid to feel free and open with this miraculous being who had chosen to be with him as long as he lived.

Focalor _could_ have replied with a teasing comment of his own, but the fact his king had just consented for him to _taste his blood_ held far greater power over him than he’d like to admit. Without warning, he punctured his king’s skin with sharp fangs and—_oh, gods._

Focalor always had this morbid curiosity since he had become an immortal being at the hands of his past king, Solomon—a small thought of what mortal blood tasted like that only grew with time. After all, everyone had their own unique blood running through their body. Would one person’s taste different than the next? 

But _nothing_ could have prepared the wind djinn for _Sinbad’s_ taste.

“Ah—yes. Oh, _Focalor_.” Sinbad moaned with abandon, his mind blacking out without an inkling of the day or time it was at the touch of those teeth.

Sinbad ground down onto Focalor’s leg in hopes of more friction against his skyrocketing arousal, but it wasn’t nearly enough. Focalor latched onto him like a leech that went days without a meal. He drank deeply, the sharpness of his fangs pricking at and twisting in his flesh with each suck.

Small rubies of blood beaded down to Sinbad’s collar bone now and then, Focalor’s grasping, yearning hands smearing it, leaving imprints of his fingers against his king—marking him. 

Sinbad tasted nothing of the unbearable copper he has heard of. He tasted rich and pure, like a thick nectar of a rare desert fruit one was lucky enough to find on a hot, perilous journey through unforgiving dunes of sand. 

**_Delicious._**

Focalor pressed himself as much as he could against his king without cutting off air, grinding against his now quaking form with his own need pulsing rapidly—shouting at him to _take, take, take_ as the golden nectar that is Sinbad’s blood kept trickling down his throat.

“Foca—oh please—I’m going to—” he was abruptly cut short on account of his djinn detaching from the base of his neck and latching back onto it just below the ear, biting through it just as hard, piercing through the taut, strong muscle there.

Sinbad came harder than he ever had in his life, thrusting as hard as he could against his djinn’s leg, cum flocking all the way up to his chest. He could tell Focalor was nearly there himself, rhythmically pushing up against his king as he sucked diligently.

In the afterglow that followed after what seemed an eternity, Focalor finally pulled away from him king, and the look in his eyes was almost enough to make Sinbad cum again on the spot.

His eyes, usually an intense ochre on their own, now glowed a dripping red in the dark room, matching the liquidy blood left covering his mouth and teeth, the latter of which were bared in what anyone would read as a scowl of rage in any other context.

_Savage, beastly_, like an apex predator trained on its prey.

“Sin.” Focalor’s voice had a tired ruggedness to it that made Sinbad’s heart skip a beat—maybe two.

He lunged forward, swallowing his king’s lips, Sinbad tasting his own blood in his mouth as Focalor relentlessly and messily licked inside it, instatably nibbling, seeking more of the thick, velvety fluid like it alone sustained him. The unpleasant taste didn’t deter Sinbad as he moved to wrap his arms around his djinn’s neck, attempting to kiss back with the same amount of forceful desire.

A thick string of blood and silvia bridged between their lips when Focalor broke the messy and thorough kiss, his eyes dripping with just as much red as a moment ago.

“I could _drink_ you _dry_.” Focalor groaned, thrusting up against his king in a weak attempt to chase release. _“I could **eat** you **alive**.”_

At any other time before this moment, Sinbad probably would have sought to put as much physical distance as possible between himself and his djinn—an inhuman creature who could very well develop a taste for human flesh. But now—after the most intense orgasm he’d ever had, with Focalor’s regal yet savagely beautiful eyes and fangs trained on him—he found he really wouldn’t mind going that way. To say the least, it excited him that a being so powerful and ethereal could want him like this. Especially since he didn’t necessarily have the highest opinion of himself as of late.

“I do need my limbs, Focalor.” Sinbad huffed a laugh, moving to embrace his djinn. “But I’m elated to feel _this_ wanted by someone like you.”

“I… Sinbad, you don’t know the half of it.”

“No?” Sinbad mused.

“No. You don’t. And I wish to tell you. I do.” Focalor admitted in a moment of vulnerability only Sinbad is capable of drawing out of him.

Sinbad pulled away just enough to focus on Focalor’s face, an adoring smile shaping his features. “I believe _these_ are telling enough.” He chuckled, gesturing to the marks on his neck that looked more like animal bites than hickies. The one near the base of his neck still bled slightly, and Focalor moved forwards to lap up the crimson liquid.

“I wish they were.”

Sinbad raised a brow at this, watching as Focalor’s red hot eyes dimmed to a soft amber. Whatever the reason for Focalor’s sudden change of emotion, Sinbad didn’t want the night to end just yet. After all, he prided himself on his bedroom manners, and Focalor had yet to cum.

“Let’s make a deal then.” Sinbad’s tone flickered with coyness, bringing a hand up to cup the side of Focalor’s face. His djinn’s iris’s glinted with amused curiosity.

“A proposal?” Focalor smiled, to which Sinbad is glad to see return after it so quickly vanished moments before. “And what did you have in mind, my king?”

“I’d be an _awful_ king if I didn’t treat my subjects fairly, wouldn’t I? You can tell me everything on your mind—_if_ you can remember those thoughts after you’ve hammered me into the bed.”

Although Focalor didn’t get the chance on this night to tell Sinbad what he had now felt more open in discussing, he couldn’t be bothered to hold it against his king. Especially not when the rising light of the sun cascaded across his face in gentle waves of gold, blanketing him in a beautiful, hopeful light. 

He looked so young like this, reminding Focalor of the adolescent man he had met years ago. A renewed sense of determination filled the djinn as he felt the magoi supplied to him by the nightly storm pass and his form retreating back into his vessel.

This curse, like all others, must have a breaking point, and he felt he owed it to the marvelous human he called king to aid in finding it, no matter the cost.

Because if his blood tasted the way it did, Sinbad is far from hopeless

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I go on an 18 hour plane ride to Portugal and then three days more without writing. Hope you all enjoyed XD  
I quite like this pairing and am going to continue this series. Any suggestions/critiques are more than welcome.  
Also, if any of you are fans of other Magi pairings, let me know and I’ll see about conjuring up stories for them if I ship it too (which 9/10 times I will because I’m fandom trash and everyone in this series is illegally attractive)


End file.
